


Baby, Who's Ahead in the Game?

by RealityBetterThanFiction



Series: Flyboys [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bromance, Niall is the star as always, Origin Story, Pilot!Harry, Prequel, RIO!Niall, Top Gun - Freeform, Why do cheetos always end up in my fics I don't even like them, take my breath away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8935555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RealityBetterThanFiction/pseuds/RealityBetterThanFiction
Summary: Every hero story needs its origin. The tale of how everyone’s favorite RIO caught himself a pilot.A prequel to Take My Breath Away.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CueTheTommo (RedPhoenix23)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=CueTheTommo+%28RedPhoenix23%29).



> For my very own RIO, Liz, on her birthday. Without her unending support, I would not still be writing. I'm so lucky to have a friend like you at my six. I hope you know I'm always at yours. Now as Niall would say, "cut the sap and get to the crap!"
> 
> P.S. Huge thanks to allwaswell16 for beta'ing this since I was trying to keep it secret from my usual beta for her birthday surprise! Now she knows the agony Liz has to suffer through with me. Oh, and hello to the rest of the squadron! Hope you enjoy this goofy little drabble.

A month into the Royal Navy’s flight school, it became clear to Harry that the process for a pilot to choose a RIO was one very much akin to the life altering decision of who to sit with at the lunch table back in primary school. Meaning that Harry was sitting at a table in the mess hall on his own, looking around at all the other groups where he’d yet to find his place. It’s not that he didn’t have friends. Basic training, and then the even more rigorous and insular world of higher aviation, had been a bonding experience like no other in the world. One came out of such intensive training with brothers, not just future squadron mates. His father had always praised the brotherhood of pilots as a sacred bond, one that could be - and had to be - counted on in even the most dire of times. But if there was anything more special than the trust between two pilots, it was the trust between a pilot and their RIO. That was why finding one was of such critical importance...and thus naturally required all pilots to revert back to their prepubescent days.

 

“Who’s on your list?”

 

The number of times Harry had heard that question the past week rivaled the number of waves in the ocean. And each time his answer was the same.

 

A shrug.

 

Because to be perfectly honest, he didn’t have a fucking _clue_ how to make such an important choice when he’d barely even begun to wrap his head around the reality of being _here_ in the first place. Making this kind of choice solidified a future...longevity...belonging. Harry still couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t make himself believe it. The only thing that might help that venture were the words of someone who would no longer be able to put voice to them.

 

Harry didn’t often let himself dwell on the past. Others already dwelled on it enough to make up for that. The shadow followed him around through basic training, only growing in its reach as he made the transition to flight school. The whispers. The stares. And worse...the expectations. He wondered how much of it was others placing those ambitions on him or him placing them on himself. But in the end, did it really matter? The outcome was the same. Harry could never live up to any of it.

 

As his thoughts teetered on the ever present edge of darkness, the clatter of a lunch tray against his table broke him from his haze.

 

“Jesus, Styles. Have you no ability to feed yourself?”

 

Harry looked down at his lunch tray, a measly conglomeration of the mess hall’s finest science experiments in the form of mystery meat and radioactive sludge. The biscuits on the edge of his tray looked green at the edges and had been as solid as hockey pucks when the unimpressed ensign doling out his portion had dropped them on his plate. They had nearly taken out his entire lunch tray.

 

In staunch contrast, the tray of his table mate was overflowing with food that actually looked mostly edible. Fresh, steaming and fragrant, not a bit of mold or questionable fuzz in sight. He didn’t even need to look into the blue eyes, blonde hair, and flushed cheeks of the tray’s owner to know who had joined him for lunch this afternoon. Every afternoon.

 

Harry didn’t know where Jr. Lieutenant Niall Horan got his food from, but it was not from the same mess hall at which the rest of them dined. Harry suspected bribery. Maybe even coercion or extortion. Horan claimed it was just his sparkling Irish charm. Harry let him have the benefit of the doubt on that one, considering he wasn’t getting much _besides_ doubt when it came to non mess hall related pursuits.

 

Horan was unquestionably good at scrounging food, but as a RIO, he was pretty much a _charlie foxtrot_. Word on the street about Horan was pretty unanimous. Harry hadn’t yet had the privilege - or misfortune, rather - of flying with him during training trials the past two weeks. All the pilots that had were very forthcoming about what it was like to be trapped in a cockpit with the infamous Irishman.

 

The first day of actual flight training, Horan had sent his pilot to the infirmary after his taste for peanuts as an airborne snack had nearly caused the poor pilot to go into anaphylaxis from a nut allergy. Equipment mysteriously failed in Horan's wake. Far too many near crash landings plagued his record. Leaking piddle packs were a constant complaint. The tall tales that followed Horan’s name weren’t for the faint of heart. It was said that pilots who flew with him had a copy of their last will and testament on hand to give to the Air Boss before take off, just in case they never set foot on solid ground again.

 

The owner of the worst reputation in flight school sighed when Harry didn’t immediately defend his plate of dog food. Then he slid over a few fresh biscuits as he’d done the very first day of basic training...and every day since.

 

“Look at me!” Horan huffed, waving a hand at his physique. “Wastin’ away to practically skin and bones to keep meat on your arse. Do you think the lasses like me chicken legs? I hope you appreciate this sacrifice.”

 

Harry chuckled, gladly accepting the gift. “Well, at least you won’t have competition when those lasses do come sniffing ‘round those stems of yours.”

 

Horan winked. “Knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

 

“Besides talent in flying?” Harry asked, amused.

 

Horan snorted. “Mate. Does it look like I give much of a damn about that? Hate to break it to ya, but this school is fuckin’ loaded with talent. And the lot of them? Absolute wank buckets. I’m not sharing my biscuits and buns with _those_ wannabe Mavericks. Any good Goose knows you pick your pilot based on how hard they fight the status quo. And their ability to rock a pair of aviator shades.”

 

“Oh, so the RIOs are the ones that choose?” Harry asked, a brow arched at such blasphemy. The other pilots might even consider those fighting words. Harry personally had never seen why it couldn’t be a mutual pairing. But coming from Horan, that kind of talk wasn’t likely to improve his public perception. And might just yield him a set of black eyes for his trouble from the pilots that liked keeping to that status quo.

 

Horan laughed, loud and obnoxious. As if what Harry had said was the joke.

 

“Mate, just stick with me. You’ve got a lot to learn,” Horan replied, sliding a fresh buttered bun onto Harry’s tray. “I’ve got your six.”

 

Horan might be a wreck waiting to happen, but he always looked out for Harry. Still, that wasn’t reason enough to sign up to hop in the cockpit with the lad who always seemed to have one hand on the proverbial ejection handle. Harry had heard the contents of many pilots’ lists the past few days. So far not a single one had held Horan’s name.

 

Despite having no prospects, Horan didn’t seem to be too concerned about the whole "RIO rush." Other RIOs who didn’t have much interest had been busy trying to talk themselves up to anyone who would listen, sweet talking the pilots, volunteering for extra hops, participating more in the classroom to show off their knowledge. Horan did none of those things. He still eviscerated every pilot he came in contact with, refused to go on hops with said “wank buckets” - his seemingly favorite pairing of words in the English language - and fell asleep more often than not in classes. Instructors had taken to punishing him with extra trips in the centrifuge for his misbehavior. Little did they know, Horan only saw that as a prize, earned through even more insubordination. How he was still passing - and actually acing - his classes was a mystery to everyone with how often his brain was rattled around at max G force in the centrifuge.

 

"Well, my six appreciates your generosity with your buns," Harry finally said.

 

“Not just gonna share my food with anyone. I take my buns seriously,” Niall replied, chomping into his own fluffy, buttered bun. “I take yours seriously too.”

 

Harry figured it was probably best to take that as a compliment. If it involved food, it was sacred in Horan’s book.

 

Harry was about to ask Horan why exactly he cared so much about Harry's buns, but a trio of pilots dropped their own trays of roadkill surprise on the table.

 

“Styles,” the leader of the trio, Lieutenant Mitchell, greeted. “We saw you were sitting alone and figured you could use some company.”

 

Mitchell was one of the top pilots in their flight class. His calling card was already full of RIOs desperate to be in his cockpit. As such, it made him, well...the biggest cock in the pit. He elbowed Horan right out of the way, not even glancing at him as if he weren’t filling the air space he occupied. His pair of mates, Lieutenants Marx and Wright, snickered as their worshipped playground bully asserted his dominance. Harry straightened his spine. They’d never been outright mean to him, just dismissive. Still, he was on guard. He wasn’t sure what this little lunch visit meant. A quick glance at Horan across the table, surrounded by pilots who acted as though he was less than the chair he sat on, wasn’t much help in figuring it out. Horan was no longer even paying attention, back to happily eating his lunch.

 

“So Styles, who’s on your list?” Mitchell asked...predictably. Harry would be willing to forgive Mitchell his douchery if he had an ounce of independent thought, but Harry wasn’t holding his breath on that one.

 

Harry gave his typical answer. Today, Mitchell wasn’t asuaged.

 

“Oh come on, you’ve got to have someone?” Mitchell said, “Look. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”

 

Harry already knew his list. Everyone knew. He had selected the top RIOs in the class, who would probably be willing to duel to the death with rusty stakes for the chance to be in his jet. It wasn’t like Harry was any threat to that.

 

“I haven’t decided yet. Honestly,” Harry told him.

 

“Deadline is tomorrow afternoon,” Wright put in.

 

Harry was aware. _Very_ aware. You would have to be both blind and deaf not to know. Even then, the tension in the air over the looming choices was palpable. The only one immune to it seemed to be the blonde lad sitting across from him, spearing his fork into succulent orange carrots.

 

“I’ll figure it out. Gut reaction, I reckon,” Harry said with his prototypical shrug.

 

For some inexplicable reason, this seemed to anger Mitchell. “You know, a lot of the pilots have been talking about you, Styles,” he said, barely controlling a sneer.

 

Harry’s eyes widened. Across the table, Horan stopped eating, eyes still downcast on his food, but otherwise paused mid movement.

 

“Oh?” Harry asked. “I haven’t heard anything.”

 

“I have,” Horan, of all people at the table, added. His words weren’t acknowledged by the other pilots. Harry watched him carefully. His eyes still hadn’t lifted from his carrots.

 

“What about?” Harry asked, addressing Horan.

 

Horan didn’t answer. Mitchell did. “They think you’re trying to swoop in and snap up their RIOs last minute.”

 

“ _They_ think that?” Harry asked, now leveling a look at Mitchell. Apparently his polite manners and general friendliness painted him as a villain in this crowd. 

 

Mitchell leaned across the table. “Is that what you’re doing, Styles?”

 

Harry laughed. “Well, if I were trying to _steal_ RIOs, doing it at the last minute is probably a pretty poor method.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Mitchell said, sitting back now, looking satisfied.

 

“Did you,” Harry mused.

 

“Yeah. Better off playing the long game, I always say.”

 

“It’s not a game,” Harry said, now the one leaning forward. He wasn’t a fan of this culture fostered in flight school. The one where RIOs had no authority over their own futures. In fact, it really pissed him off. 

 

Mitchell slapped his hands down on the table, fingers stretched as if claiming his place. “No. It’s not. So you better not start playing any of them. A pilot and his RIO should be evenly matched in talent and drive. No amount of smooth talking and fake smiles outweighs true instinct and skill behind the yoke. The best deserves the best. Cream always rises to the top.”

 

Lightening quick, Harry caught the snap of Horan’s wrist as it shot out, fork in hand, and lodged the prongs of his eating utensil into the mess hall table. Right between the fingers of Mitchell’s left hand. Narrowly missing flesh. By millimeters.

 

“And shit sinks,” Horan said, voice as sharp as his fork. He looked at Mitchell with just as much razor edge.

 

A beat of silence passed over the table as everyone looked at the fork, then at Horan. Mitchell’s face was growing steadily more red.

 

Harry cleared his throat, speaking first. “It’s a good thing I’m lactose intolerant, then.”

 

Horan broke out in another laugh, throwing Harry a wink. Then he yanked his fork free and went right back to eating his carrots as if he hadn’t just nearly impaled the top pilot in their class.

 

Mitchell was so furious he was shaking. His hand reached out, as if to wrap around Horan’s skinny throat. Harry cleared his throat once, nodding to their superiors looming just off in the distance, watching the entire scene. Then Mitchell backed down.

 

Mitchell recovered enough control to hiss, “Well. I hope you’ll both be happy at the bottom of the barrel with the rest of the _waste_. Shame, Styles. Everyone says you have potential. Then again, they also say the apple sometimes does roll away from the tree, especially when it’s rotten.”

 

Before Harry could say anything in his own defense against Mitchell’s apparently unending bad idioms, Mitchell and his cronies got up and left the table. Harry sat in his place, unable to move, hands clenched into fists against his thighs.

 

He was angry. But more than that, it hurt. Fuck did it hurt. Still.

 

He clenched his teeth, trying to will away the flood of emotions. Horan watched him carefully, chewing on his carrots. When he finished, he said, “Are you really, mate?”

 

 _Rotten?_ Harry almost asked. But that probably wasn’t what Horan was asking. He probably already knew the answer to that. Gossip really did travel fast around here.

 

“Really what?” Harry said instead, choking down the ball of pain in his throat. “Serious about not wanting to perpetuate this ridiculous conception that RIOs are inferior and not worthy of autonomy? Yes, I am bloody serious. It’s ignorant and archaic.”

 

Horan blinked at him. “Uh. Great. But I was asking about you being lactose intolerant. Because that would be a deal breaker.”

 

“A deal breaker for what?” Harry asked, blinking right back.

 

Horan threw up his hands, one of which was still clutching his pronged weapon. A carrot went flying, landing on a nearby table. “Alright! Jesus, Styles. Fine. You can stop hounding me, now. Okay? I’ll let you be my bloody pilot.”

 

“Uh…”

 

Horan just rolled his eyes. He dropped the fork, which was probably for the best seeing as how he’d brandished it mere moments ago, and dug into his back pocket. From it, he produced a paper clip, an empty candy bar wrapper, a ball of lint, a green permanent marker, a pair of dog tags that were definitely not his own, and a crumpled up piece of paper.

 

The paper with barely legible writing was handed to Harry.

 

“That’s my list,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“For?” Harry inspected the list, not making any sense of it.

 

“My hard limits.”

 

“Uh. Is this some kind of BDSM thing? Because I’m not sure I feel comfortable doing that with someone I barely…”

 

Horan picked his fork up again and pointed it at Harry, inches from his face. “Are you going to shut up and read it now or keep rambling about trying to get me between the sheets, Styles? Because let me just tell you, you’re cute and all, but you aren’t getting any of _this_.” He patted his nonexistent bum with his free hand.

 

“Duly noted,” Harry said for lack of any other kind of response.

 

He directed his attention down to the list.

 

 

  * __Mandatory weekly viewing of_ Top Gun _. You must be fluent on the script. There will be quizzes.__


  * _If you see Cheetos laying around, they are mine. Hands off. Penalty of death._


  * _I do not cook. That’s your job. Just like the flying._


  * _I also do not pay for drinks. But I like consuming them. A lot._


  * _If you want praise, go to church. Not getting it here, pal._


  * _Always up for a cuddle. Prefer to be big spoon. What can I say? I’m a RIO. I’m used to being in back._


  * _I choose your call sign. And I choose my own. And I choose our bromance ship name._


  * _I also choose the name of our aircraft._


  * _And which bunk I get in the racks. (Top one. No exception.)_


  * _You’ll always have fresh buns and biscuits hanging with me._



 

 

Harry read the last line of the list over again, ridiculous tears close to the surface. Horan was watching him again, lips pursed.

 

“And just so you know?” Horan said, “I’d take a bite out of you. You don’t look rotten to me.”

 

Now the tears were definitely a threat. “I thought you said there was gonna be no bum action. Mixed signals, mate,” Harry said with a watery smile.

 

Horan cackled again. Harry had a feeling that laugh was going to be haunting him for a long time to come. And he was surprisingly okay with that.

 

“We’re gonna have good craic, Harry,” Horan said, reaching out to pat him on the cheek.

 

“Always,” Harry murmured.

 

“See ya later, Bum Bandit!” Horan called over his shoulder as he left the table. “Hey! That’s a good one! Gonna have to remember that for a call sign.”

 

Harry groaned in agony, but then he found himself laughing. And those tears were nowhere to be found.

 

Less than twenty four hours later, Harry handed in his RIO request form. Only one name was on his list.

 

His commanding officer looked down at the list, then back up at Harry.

 

“Are you...sure?” the commander asked, absolutely confounded.

 

Harry grinned, already hearing that damned manic laugh in his head. “With all due respect, sir...does shit sink?”

 

“Already a bad influence, I see,” his commander said with a sigh.

 

Harry shrugged. “Us bottom dwellers gotta stick together.”

 

“Alright. Seeing as there’s no other requests for him, he’s yours. Good luck. You’ll need it.”

 

A big red stamp with the word _APPROVED_ was smacked down over Harry’s list, immediately filed away. Harry saluted his commander, then marched from the room. As expected, his new RIO was waiting just outside. They fell into step seamlessly.

 

“So,” Niall began.

 

“So,” Harry answered.

 

Their footsteps carried down the hall as they made their way through the compound.

 

“This calls for a celebratory pint, I think,” Niall declared. “I know a place.”

 

“Let me guess. It’s on me?”

 

“Wey hey! You learn fast. You’ll do, Bum Bandit.”

 

“If this is going to work between us, that’s _not_ going to be my call sign,” Harry told him flatly.

 

Niall shrugged. “I’ll come up with something good. Don’t you worry, Willy Nilly.”

 

Harry bought Niall his first of an endless number of drinks that afternoon. Two days later they won their first hop. Then another after that. Top accolades in flight school soon followed. As did more drinks paid for from Harry’s wallet.

 

It was the beginning of a beautiful romance...uh... _bro_ mance.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feels good to write these characters again! More to come from this verse. Come say hi on Tumblr (RealityBetterThanFiction)! Lots of love, squadron!
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
